Dragonquest

  To have assigned messenger dragons to every major Hold and Craft had been a very practical measure, too, when Benden had been Pern’s only dragonweyr. The northern continent was broad. It took days to get messages from one coast to the other. The Harpercraft’s system of drums was a poor second when a dragon could transport himself, his rider and an ungarbled message instantly anywhere on the planet.

  F’lar, too, was exceedingly aware of the dangers of isolation. In the days before the first Thread had again fallen on Pern—could it be only seven Turns ago?—Benden Weyr had been vitiated by its isolation, and the entire planet all but lost. Where F’lar earnestly felt that dragonmen should make themselves accessible and friendly, the Oldtimers were obsessed by a need for privacy. Which only fertilized the ground for such incidents as had just occurred. T’reb on a disturbed green had swooped down on the Smithmastercrafthall and demanded—not requested—that a craftsman give up an artifact, which had been made by commission for a powerful Lord Holder.

  With thoughts that were more disillusioned than vengeful, F’lar realized that Mnementh was gliding fast toward Fort Weyr’s jagged rim. The Star Stones and the watchrider were silhouetted against the dying sunset. Beyond them were the forms of three other bronzes, one a good half-tail larger than the others. That would be Orth, so T’bor was already arrived from Southern Weyr. But only three bronzes? Who was yet to come to the meeting?

  Salth from High Reaches and Branth with R’mart of Telgar Weyr are absent, Mnementh informed his rider.

  High Reaches and Telgar Weyrs missing? Well, T’kul of High Reaches was likely late on purpose. Odd though; that caustic Oldtimer ought to enjoy tonight. He’d have a chance to snipe at both F’lar and T’bor and he’d thoroughly enjoy T’ron’s discomfiture. F’lar had never felt any friendliness for or from the dour, dark-complected High Reaches Weyrleader. He wondered if that was why Mnementh never used T’kul’s name. Dragons ignored human names when they didn’t like the bearer. But for a dragon not to name a Weyrleader was most unusual.

  F’lar hoped that R’mart of Telgar would come. Of the Oldtimers, R’mart and G’narish of Igen were the youngest, the least set in their ways. Though they tended to side with their contemporaries in most affairs against the two modern Weyrleaders, F’lar and T’bor, F’lar had noticed lately that those two were sympathetic to some of his suggestions. Could he work on that to his advantage today—tonight? He wished that Lessa could have come with him for she was able to use deft mental pressures against dissenters and could often get the other dragons to answer her. She had to be careful, for dragonriders were apt to suspect they were being manipulated.

  Mnementh was now within the Bowl of Fort Weyr itself and veering toward the ledge of the senior queen’s weyr. T’ron’s Fidranth was not there, guarding his queen Weyrmate as Mnementh would have been. Or perhaps Mardra, the senior Weyrwoman, was gone. She was as quick to find exception and slights as T’ron, though once she hadn’t been so touchy. In those first days after the Weyrs had come up, she and Lessa had been exceedingly close. But Mardra’s friendship had gradually turned into an active hatred. Mardra was a handsome woman, with a full, strong figure, and while she was nowhere near as promiscuous with her favors as Kylara of Southern Weyr, she was much sought after by bronze riders. By nature she was intensely possessive and not, F’lar realized, particularly intelligent. Lessa, dainty, oddly beautiful, already a Weyr legend for that spectacular ride between time, had unconsciously attracted attention from Mardra. Mardra evidently didn’t consider the fact that Lessa made no attempt to entice any favorite from Mardra, did not, indeed, dally with any man (for which F’lar was immensely pleased). Add to that the ridiculous matter of their mutual Ruathan origin—Mardra conceived a hatred for Lessa. She seemed to feel that Lessa, the only survivor of that Bloodline, had had no right to renounce her claim on Ruatha Hold to young Lord Jaxom. Not that a Weyrwoman could take Hold or would want to. The bases for Mardra’s hatred of Lessa were spurious. Lessa had no control over her beauty and had had no real choice about taking Hold at Ruatha.

  So it was as well the Weyrwomen had not been included in this meeting. Put Mardra in the same room with Lessa and there’d be problems. Add Kylara of the Southern Weyr who was apt to make trouble for the pure joy of getting attention by disrupting others, and nothing would be accomplished. Nadira of Igen Weyr liked Lessa but in a passive way. Bedella of Telgar Weyr was stupid and Fauna of Ista, taciturn. Merika of the High Reaches was as much a sour sort as her Weyrleader T’kul.

  This was a matter for men to settle.

  F’lar thanked Mnementh as he slid down the warm shoulder to the ledge, stumbling as his bootheels caught on the ridges of claw scars on the edge. T’ron might have put out a basket of glows, F’lar thought irritably, and then caught himself. Another trick to put everyone in as unreceptive a mood as possible.

  Loranth, senior queen dragon of Fort Weyr, solemnly regarded F’lar as he entered the main room of the Weyr. He gave her a cordial greeting, suppressing his relief that there was no sign of Mardra. If Loranth was solemn, Mardra would have been downright unpleasant. Undoubtedly the Fort Weyrwoman was sulking beyond the curtain between weyr and sleeping room. Maybe this awkward time had been her idea. It was after western dinner hours and too late for more than wine for those from later time zones. She thus avoided the necessity of playing hostess.

  Lessa would never resort to such mean-spirited strategies. F’lar knew how often the impulsive Lessa had bitten back quick answers when Mardra had patronized her. In fact, Lessa’s forbearance with the haughty Fort Weyrwoman was miraculous, considering Lessa’s temper. F’lar supposed that his Weyrmate felt responsible for uprooting the Oldtimers. But the final decision to go forward in time had been theirs.

  Well, if Lessa could endure Mardra’s condescension out of gratitude, F’lar could try to put up with T’ron. The man did know how to fight Thread effectively and F’lar had learned a great deal from him at first. So, in a determinedly pleasant frame of mind, F’lar walked down the short passage to the Fort Weyr Council Room.

  T’ron, seated in the big stone chair at the head of the Table, acknowledged F’lar’s entry with a stiff nod. The light of the glows on the wall cast unflattering shadows on the Oldtimer’s heavy, lined face. It struck F’lar forcibly that the man, had never known anything but fighting Thread. He must have been born when the Red Star began that last fifty-Turn-long Pass around Pern, and he’d fought Thread until the Star had finished its circuit. Then followed Lessa forward. A man could get mighty tired of fighting Thread in just seven short Turns. F’lar halted that line of thought.

  D’ram of Ista Weyr and G’narish of Igen also contented themselves with nods. T’bor, however, gave F’lar a hearty greeting, his eyes glinting with emotion.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” F’lar said to all. “I apologize for taking you from your own affairs or rest with this request for an emergency meeting of all Weyrleaders, but it could not wait until the regular Solstice Gathering.”

  “I’ll conduct the meetings at Fort Weyr, Benden,” T’ron said in a cold harsh voice. “I’ll wait for T’kul and R’mart before I have any discussion of your—your complaint.”

  “Agreed.”

  T’ron stared at F’lar as if that hadn’t been the answer he’d anticipated and he’d gathered himself for an argument that hadn’t materialized. F’lar nodded to T’bor as he took the seat beside him.

  “I’ll say this now, Benden,” T’ron continued. “The next time you elect to drag us all out of our Weyrs suddenly, you apply to me first. Fort’s the oldest Weyr on Pern. Don’t just irresponsibly send messengers out to everyone.”

  “I don’t see that F’lar acted irresponsibly,” G’narish said, evidently surprised by T’ron’s attitude. G’narish was a stocky young man, some Turns F’lar’s junior and the youngest of the Weyrleaders to come forward in time. “Any Weyrleader can call a joint meeting if circumstances warrant it. And these do!” G’narish emphasized this with a
curt nod, adding when he saw the Fort Weyrleader scowling at him, “Well, they do.”

  “Your rider was the aggressor, T’ron,” D’ram said in a stern voice. He was a rangy man, getting stringy with age, but his astonishing shock of red hair was only lightly grizzled at the temples. “F’lar’s within his rights.”

  “You had the choice of time and place, T’ron,” F’lar pointed out, all deference.

  T’ron’s scowl deepened.

  “Wish Telgar’d get here,” he said in a low, irritated tone.

  “Have some wine, F’lar?” T’bor suggested, an almost malicious smile playing on his lips for T’ron ought to have offered immediately. “Of course, it’s not Benden Hold wine, but not bad. Not bad.”

  F’lar gave T’bor a long warning look as he took the proffered cup. But the Southern Weyrleader was watching to see how T’ron reacted. Benden Hold did not tithe of its famous wines as generously to the other Weyrs as it did to the one which protected its lands.

  “When are we going to taste some of those Southern Weyr wines you’ve been bragging about, T’bor?” G’narish asked, instinctively trying to ease the growing tensions.

  “Of course, we’re entering our fall season now,” T’bor said, making it seem that Fort was to blame for the chill outside—and inside—the Weyr. “However, we expect to start pressing soon. We’ll distribute what we can spare to you northerners.”

  “What do you mean? What you can spare?” T’ron asked, staring hard at T’bor.

  “Well, Southern plays nurse to every wounded dragonrider. We need sufficient on hand to drown their sorrows adequately. Southern Weyr supports itself, you must remember.”

  F’lar stepped on T’bor’s booted foot as he turned to D’ram and inquired of the Istan Weyrleader how the last Laying had gone.

  “Very well, thanks,” D’ram replied pleasantly, but F’lar knew the older man did not like the mood that was developing. “Fauna’s Mirath laid twenty-five and I’ll warrant we’ve half a dozen bronzes in the clutch.”

  “Ista’s bronzes are the fastest on Pern,” F’lar said gravely. When he heard T’bor stirring restlessly beside him, he reached swiftly to Mnementh with a silent “Ask Orth to please tell T’bor to speak with great thought for the consequences. D’ram and G’narish must not be antagonized.” Out loud he said, “A weyr can never have too many good bronzes. If only to keep the queens happy.” He leaned back, watching T’bor out of the corner of his eye to catch his reaction when the dragons completed the message relay. T’bor gave a sudden slight jerk, then shrugged, his glance shifting from D’ram to T’ron and back to F’lar. He looked more rebellious than cooperative. F’lar turned back to D’ram. “If you need some likely prospects for any green dragons, there’s a boy . . .”

  “D’ram follows tradition, Benden,” T’ron cut in. “Weyrbred is best for dragonkind. Particularly for greens.”

  “Oh?” T’bor glared with malicious intent at T’ron.

  D’ram cleared his throat hastily and said in a too loud voice, “As it happens, we’ve a good group of likely boys in our Lower Caverns. The last Impression at G’narish’s Weyr left him with a few he has offered to place at Ista Weyr. So I thank you kindly, F’lar. Generous indeed when you’ve eggs hardening at Benden too. And a queen, I hear?”

  D’ram exhibited no trace of envy for another queen egg at Benden Weyr. And Fauna’s Mirath hadn’t produced a single golden egg since she’d come time between.

  “We all know Benden’s generosity,” T’ron said in a sneering tone, his eyes flicking around the room, everywhere but at F’lar. “He extends help everywhere. And interferes when it isn’t needed.”

  “I don’t call what happened at the Smithhall interference,” D’ram said, his face assuming grave lines.

  “I thought we were going to wait for T’kul and R’mart,” G’narish said, glancing anxiously up the passageway.

  So, F’lar mused, D’ram and G’narish are upset by today’s events.

  “T’kul’s better known for the meetings he misses than the ones he attends,” T’bor remarked.

  “R’mart always comes,” G’narish said.

  “Well, they’re neither of them here. And I’m not waiting on their pleasure any longer,” T’ron announced, rising.

  “Then you’d better call in B’naj and T’reb,” D’ram suggested with a heavy sigh.

  “They’re in no condition to attend a meeting.” T’ron seemed surprised at D’ram’s request. “Their dragons only returned from flight at sunset.”

  D’ram stared at T’ron. “Then why did you call the meeting for tonight?”

  “At F’lar’s insistence.”

  T’bor rose to protest before F’lar could stop him, but D’ram waved him to be seated and sternly reminded T’ron that the Fort Weyrleader had set the time, not F’lar of Benden.

  “Look, we’re here now,” T’bor said, banging his fist on the table irritably. “Let’s get on with it. It’s full night in Southern Weyr. I’d like . . .”

  “I conduct the Fort Weyr meetings, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud, firm voice, although the effort of keeping his temper told in the flush of his face and the brightness of his eyes.

  “Then conduct it,” T’bor replied. “Tell us why a green rider took his dragon out of your Weyr when she was close to heat.”

  “T’reb was not aware she was that close . . .”

  “Nonsense,” T’bor cut in, glaring at T’ron. “You keep telling us how much of a traditionalist you are, and how well trained your riders are. Then don’t tell me a rider as old as T’reb can’t estimate his beast’s condition.”

  F’lar began to think he didn’t need an ally like T’bor.

  “A green changes color rather noticeably,” G’narish said, with some reluctance, F’lar noted. “Usually a full day before she wants to fly.”

  “Not in the spring,” T’ron pointed out quickly. “Not when she’s off her feed from Threadscore. It can happen very quickly. Which it did.” T’ron spoke loudly, as if the volume of his explanation would bear more weight than its logic.

  “That is possible,” D’ram admitted slowly, nodding his head up and down before he turned to see what F’lar thought.

  “I accept that possibility,” F’lar replied, keeping his voice even. He saw T’bor open his mouth to protest and kicked the man under the table. “However, according to the testimony of Craftmaster Terry, my rider urged T’reb repeatedly to take his dragon away. T’reb persisted in his attempt to—to acquire the belt knife.”

  “And you accept the word of a commoner against a rider?” T’ron leaped on F’lar’s statement with a great show of surprised indignation and incredulity.

  “What would a Craftmaster,” and F’lar emphasized the title, “gain by bringing false witness?”

  “Those smithcrafters are the most notorious misers of Pern,” T’ron replied as if this were a personal insult. “The worst of all the crafts when it comes to parting with an honest tithe.”

  “A jeweled belt knife is not a tithe item.”

  “What difference does that make, Benden?” T’ron demanded.

  F’lar stared back at the Fort Weyrleader. So T’ron was trying to set the blame on Terry! Then he knew that his rider had been at fault. Why couldn’t he just admit it and discipline the rider? F’lar only wanted to see that there’d be no repetitions of such an incident.

  “The difference is that that knife had been crafted for Lord Larad of Telgar as a gift to Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold for his wedding six days from now. The blade was not Terry’s to give or withhold. It already belonged to a Lord Holder. Therefore, the rider was . . .”

  “Naturally you’d take the part of your rider, Benden,” T’ron cut in with a slight, unpleasant smile on his face. “But for a rider, a Weyrleader, to take the part of a Lord Holder against dragonfolk—” and T’ron turned to D’ram and G’narish with a helpless shrug of dismay.

  “If R’mart were here, you’d be—” T’bor began.


  D’ram gestured at him to be quiet. “We’re not discussing possession but what seems to be a grave breach of Weyr discipline,” he said in a voice that overwhelmed T’bor’s protest. “However, F’lar, you do admit that a green, off her feed from Threadscore, can suddenly go into heat without warning?”

  F’lar could feel T’bor urging him to deny that possibility. He knew that he had made a mistake in pointing out that the knife had been commissioned for a Lord Holder. Or in taking the part of a Holder not bound to Benden Weyr. If only R’mart had been here to speak in Lord Larad’s behalf. As it was, F’lar had prejudiced his case. The incident had disturbed D’ram so much that the man was deliberately closing his eyes to fact and seeking any extenuating circumstance he could. If F’lar forced him to see the event clearly, would he prove anything to a man unwilling to believe that dragonriders could be guilty of error? Would he get D’ram to admit that Craft and Hold had privileges, too?

  He took a slow deep breath to control the frustrated anger he felt. “I have to concede that it is possible a green can go into heat without warning under those conditions.” Beside him, T’bor cursed under his breath. “But for exactly that reason, T’reb ought to have known to keep his green in the Weyr.”

  “But T’reb’s a Fort Weyr rider,” T’bor began heatedly, jumping to his feet. “And I’ve been told often enough that . . .”